


Hidden Memory

by Heather



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Dream Sex, F/M, Gap Filler, Hallucinations, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-25
Updated: 2007-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-08 02:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heather/pseuds/Heather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor has hallucinations. Lots of them. This bridges the gap between "Home" and "Origin," though not really completely--that would've been a lot longer than I could've written in one night (by fucking CANDLELIGHT, in case anyone's forgotten ;-)).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hidden Memory

**Author's Note:**

> I like this one, but not as much as certain other pieces. I think the pacing is a little awkward, and you can actually see where the story started to wind down because I was tired and my eyes were starting to hurt. But overall, it's not terrible. Recommended listening while you read this is Death Cab for Cutie's "Someday You Will Be Loved," because it's really _perfect_ for Connor/Angel post-"Home." (_"You'll be loved, you'll be loved like you never have known, when the memories of me seem more like bad dreams. Just a series of blurs, like I never occurred. Someday, you will be loved."_) Alternately, if that song's not to your taste, "Dreaming of Darla" off the "Angel" OST. 'Cause that's what I was listening to, until my electricity went fizzle.

The bizarre fantasy life of Connor Reilly began in the last summer of his childhood—high school behind him, college ahead. He was in the middle of what his guidance counselor had called transcendence, what everyone else called commencement. All just fancy words for "time to grow up now!"

Under this kind of pressure, Connor thinks, it's possible for anyone to crack up.

It begins with shadows hovering out of the corner of his eye, first at his SAT celebration dinner, then all the time. It worried him at first, this sense of being watched, followed—the feeling something bigger than he was going on. That night, he prowled his house in the dark, searching for something, anything, whatever it was. It bothered him to realize that he felt very much as if he'd done this before.

Eventually, he laughed at his own silliness and went back to bed.

When he got there, he dreamed of wandering alone, body aching with hunger, underneath an open red sky.

\--

A week into his summer, Connor's beginning to grow more accustomed to his newfound sense of paranoia, sort of like it's something that's meant to be a part of him, or that's been…missing, in some way. It's not that he enjoys hyper vigilance and looking constantly over his shoulder; it's just that he's used to it. Which is ridiculous, because Connor's never had anything to be afraid of for real in his entire life.

He's lying on the couch, halfheartedly playing a video game as these thoughts plague him when the air conditioner shorts out. He notices before anyone else, and not because of the temperature, either—he had actually heard the motors stop. He reports it to his parents, who think he's being silly, but being that they're wonderful parents, they look into it anyway.

"Huh." His mom says when they check vents and discover they're no longer blowing. "Looks like you were right, honey."

"Wow." His dad adds with a shake of his head. "I wish I had your ears."

The conversation then devolves into a discussion that revolves jointly around medical articles about American hearing loss and the cost of getting the unit repaired.

Connor heads back to the living room and his game. No one thinks about his hearing again.

But that night, lying in his bed, feverish with unabated California heat and sticky with sweat, the feeling that he's being watched is stronger than ever. He's almost asleep, anyway, when he feels cool lips trailing kisses down his spine.

He spends the rest of the night propped firmly against the headboard, fighting sleep. It's just not safe anymore.

\--

His mom comes into his room on Monday morning while he's dividing his attention between a Gameboy and his old American lit book. He's not sure yet if he's going to take American lit—or any other kind of literature—when he gets to school, but it never hurts to be prepared.

"Hey." She greets him with a soft smile and a rap at the door.

"What's up?" He asks, subtly sliding the Gameboy under a pillow. Somehow, he doubts his mother would approve.

"The air conditioner repairman's here."

Connor gives her a baffled look. "You want me to go say 'hi'?"

She laughs even as she gives him a stern look. "It's just that your dad's still at work and I'm about to take Kayla to the mall."

Connor nods sagely. "I promise we'll behave. No making out on the couch and he'll be out the door by ten."

She laughs again, shaking her head as she turns and leaves. Connor goes back to his distractions and forgets all about it until he heads downstairs later to get a drink out of the refrigerator. He's halfway through a can of Pepsi when another of those strange shadows passes across his peripheral vision, clenching his stomach and causing the rest of him to freeze. He sets the soda aside as his breath catches somewhere in his chest and his brow creases in a frown.

Strangest of all, he feels an odd compulsion to follow it.

His first steps are tentative, padding silently through the living room in socks, then to the door catty-cornered off the coat closet.

It's already open.

He gives it a gentle nudge, letting it creakily glide the rest of the way, revealing the long column of basement stairs and it's like the world has somehow shifted out from under him and his vision has doubled. Not in the way double vision usually works, for he is not seeing two of the same thing; instead, it's more like he's seeing everything in two layers, one the familiar staircase to the basement where he and Kayla used to play, the other the stairs to somewhere else.

He begins to descend, almost against his will, and the world becomes alive with scents—not just the musty, dusty, cobwebby smell of basement, but the fresh rubber of new gym mats and the sock-y smell of old sweat and—oh God—an old, lingering smell like…blood.

At the end of the staircase is a gigantic cage, and inside is a dark man, all sharp features and frightening smile and laughing eyes. His clothes are stylish and his hair is gelled to perfection. His tongue darts out, just a little, passing briefly over his lip and Connor simultaneously feels righteous anger, sickening fear and throat-tightening, taut wire sensation in his stomach—as if it's coiling in on itself and in the process, raising goose bumps all over his body.

Before he knows it, Connor's stance is closing off, becoming more defensive—like a spring ready to snap—and he's bracing himself as if for a fight.

But fight isn't what's awaiting him. The dark man chuckles at his reaction and reaches a hand through the bars, beckoning him closer in a way that screams "want." Connor's tongue glides out and he wets his own lips as he's overtaken by trembling. And—perhaps not so coincidentally—a nearly painful hard-on.

"Come here, boy." The dark man says, but it's so far away that somehow, Connor can't hear. He drifts closer, every nerve ending in his body burning and twitching with fear and desire.

"That's it…yes…" The dark man exhorts, some light in his eyes dancing merrily as Connor moves just barely within reach. "Come here, son."

The taut wire inside Connor's belly snaps and his eyes go wide as he's overcome by sensation that washes over him with that single word. Everything seems simultaneously both real and false and there's just a glimmer of recognition, if he can only reach out and grab it and give it one little tug—

"…Dad?" He asks weakly, in a faltering voice.

"Huh?" Says another voice, unfamiliar, and suddenly reality comes crashing down around Connor, speeding his heart rate and exploding in his ears. The smells, the cage—and the dark man inside it—are all gone. In front of him is only the basement he and his little sister have always played in, where Dad keeps the pool table and Mom stores the Christmas ornaments. Huddled on his knees by the air conditioning unit is a confused-looking man in a khaki uniform. His nametag reads "Jesse." "I'm almost done with this replacement—just gotta tighten a few more screws and get the cover back on." A pause. "You need somethin', kid?"

"No, sorry." Connor says automatically. "I thought you were someone else."

The shadows in his peripheral vision fade away. Instead, he begins to see men in black with leering smiles everywhere.

\--

He's cracking up. He's definitely cracking up. Connor knows he is and that's all there is to it.

"Honey, you okay?" His mom asks. Ever the perceptive one, Mom is. "You haven't touched your dinner."

Maybe not.

Connor opens his mouth to say something—he's not sure what—but is saved by his dad jumping in for him.

"Lay off the boy, Colleen. It's just school stress." Dad says between bites of chicken. "Isn't that right, son?"

"Yeah." Connor says, at best, unconvincingly. "School stress."

Predictably, the distraction works. His mother perks right up. "Oh, have you thought some more about where you want to go?"

Connor bites his lip, then forces himself to eat some chicken as he thinks. "I'm leaning a little toward Boston." Somewhere nice and far away from the imaginary dark-clothed man grinning at him at the other end of the table.

\--

Connor is woken up three days later by the sensation of having a weight on his chest.

It's not a crushing weight, he notices. It's kind of light, in a way, like the feeling of supporting a person who has carefully distributed themselves to avoid hurting him.

He doesn't turn on the light, but when he opens his eyes, he's clearly able to see. Perched on top of him is the most beautiful blonde he's ever seen. She's slender, but curvy, encased in a red satin slip patterned all over with gold fleur-de-lis. Her hands are in his hair and her breasts are a hair's breadth away from his nose. The thing that really gets him is that she looks familiar. Very, very familiar.

He doesn't think about it long. It's only seconds before she's pulling her shirt over his head and then bending to kiss him.

Her tongue is cold, but it's not unpleasant. Quite the opposite, he kinda digs it. Her nails scrape across his chest and his cock jumps. Connor's hands slide through her hair—cool and silken and a little wispy in a way that feels inhuman and slightly jarring—before experimentally slipping down to roam her body.

"Are you real?" He asks, sliding her dress straps from her shoulders. She moves her arms with surprising grace to help him.

She looks amused at the question, her eyebrows mockingly raising. She clasps his wrists and guides his hands to her breasts, fitting them nicely into his palms. He has to bite back a moan as she lowers her head to flick her tongue across his earlobe before she huskily murmurs, "Are you?"

He grasps her hips hard and flips them over, grinding his pelvis into hers as he whispers against her lips, "Yes."

Zzzzzzip. The zipper to his jeans—he'd gone to sleep in his clothes—makes its way down and he can feel her hand slide into his boxers. She wraps her hand expertly around his cock and begins to pump. "Don't be so sure."

"Who are you?" He breathes, holding himself still above her as her hand continues to work.

"When you know that," she purrs, speeding her rhythm to a maddening pace, "then you'll know everything." Then her mouth opens and there are teeth in his throat, blood pouring down and it's more than he can stand. His eyes close tightly as a cry rips out of him and he erupts into orgasm.

When Connor opens his eyes, he's alone and sticky with semen. There is no blood on his neck.

The weeks fly by, and visions of blond women in red join the cast of imaginary things following him everywhere.

\--

Connor sits alone up in his room after three weeks blessedly free of any serious hallucination. He's got a decision to make and it's the first time all summer he's felt like he has the clarity to make it.

Spread out on his bed is his acceptance letters, seven in all. There used to be more, but half were thrown away unopened as not even worth considering. Safety nets, no more.

New York, Massachusetts, Indiana, Pennsylvania, and three here in California. Two are UCs. All are excellent schools, and all are closing registration soon, unless he wants to wait for the spring semester in January. The decision is one that can't wait.

In the end, there's only one that makes sense. He doesn't want to go that far from home.

He picks Stanford over UCLA, anyway. No one ever said he'd miss his family THAT much.

\--

The night before he leaves for school, Connor isn't alone when he drops into his bed. Someone had been waiting for him when he walked in and it gave him only a second's pause until, resigned, he'd collapsed onto the mattress.

"Hi." He says softly to the man lying beside him.

"Hi." The man says back with a soft, loving smile, a smile Connor's never seen him wear before.

"Am I out already?" Connor asks him conversationally. Normal as can be, chatting with your delusions.

The man's fingers tenderly brush his cheek. "Does it matter?"

"I guess not." Connor sighs, leaning slightly into the touch. It feels good. Not burning with the same mix of fear and passionate desire, but maybe better for that; softer.

"You're going away tomorrow." The man says, turning his whole body towards Connor's as he continues the caress down his cheek.

"Looks that way." Connor replies, momentarily letting his eyes drift closed. He bites his lip, then opens them again. "Are you coming with me?"

A minute passes in silence. Two. Three.

"No." The man finally admits. He sounds regretful.

Connor nods a little. "So this really is just school stress."

"Maybe." The man says. "You want it to be?"

Connor hesitates. "Kinda. Yeah."

The man nods, unhurt by this. "Okay."

Another silence passes between them, more comfortably this time. The man breaks it first. "I'm so proud of you, Connor."

Connor shrugs slightly, gives the man the same answer he's been giving everyone else. "It's just school."

"No." The man responds seriously. "It's more than that."

Connor regards him contemplatively for a second before reciprocating the gentle, feather-light touches the man's been giving him. "It's just college. There are more important things."

"Like what?" The man asks with a chuckle, nipping briefly at Connor's fingers.

Connor doesn't know. He saves himself from answering with a kiss.

\--

The two males roll together across the bed, tongues lightly stroking together as their hands learn each other's bodies. One of Connor's hands strokes his partner's chest through his shirt while the other steadily manages each button. Shirt out of the way, Connor traces the nipple beneath, first with his fingernail, then his tongue, smirking a little to himself at the moans this action brings.

Connor's shirt eventually hits the floor, shortly followed by everything else. They are still kissing—it is unbelievable to Connor that they are still kissing—and now there are hands teasingly stroking Connor's belly. The man strokes downward, extracting a gasp from Connor as first he feathers a finger along each juncture where Connor's legs and hips come together before he almost reverently wraps his hand around Connor's cock. He bends down to suck lightly at Connor's throat.

Connor arches his back with a moan, grinding their chests together at the same time that he presses his chin into the man above him's shoulder. He gets a brief view of a tattoo—he can't quite see of what—before he's turned over onto his belly.

The man pulls back a little then, lifting one of Connor's feet and resting it on his shoulder. He kisses the heel, nips at the Achilles' tendon, then trails kisses up the leg. Connor hisses softly, sucking a breath in between his clenched teeth as the man suckles at the crease of his knee. Connor smells, rather than feels, tiny beads of blood well up there. The man licks them away.

He gently sets Connor's leg aside before he bends down, letting his tongue find Connor's tailbone and then tracing it slowly up Connor's spine, stopping to leave small bites on each of his shoulder blades.

Connor groans, writhes and twists his hands up in the bed sheets. The risk of biting clean through his lip is becoming increasingly more likely. He closes his eyes with another hiss as fingers stroke down his back and go away. He can actually hear the man sucking the beads of sweat from each one. And then he feels it—one finger, then two, carefully stretching him open before the man eases his way in.

The world becomes a combination of pain and bliss, each pushing towards the other, ever harder, ever faster. Connor's pulse is racing and his heart is pounding and all the world is kiss and thrust and teeth and cock, and God, yes, more, please—

The harsh breathing in his hear is briefly stilled as the man above him (behind him, in him, yes, God) raggedly whispers into his ear, "Who am I?"

Connor's teeth clench together and his eyes close tightly as he grinds out the first answer that comes to mind. "Mine." The urgency in the thrusting renews and a hand slides between Connor and the mattress to grasp him, stroking and pumping almost frantically. Connor gasps, chokes and hoarsely murmurs, "Oh, God, yes, please."

"Who are you?" The man demands again, mercilessly building Connor's pleasure at the same time that he takes his own.

The answer comes softer this time, more sincere. "Yours."

"Yes." The man gasps, his motions becoming more erratic as the end approaches. "Yes." He leans down and bites into Connor's earlobe for an instant—just one instant—and that's all it takes. They climax in almost perfect unison, each crying out practically at the top of his lungs before they sag into the mattress together, damp and sated.

"We're family." The man whispers into Connor's flesh, so ragged and broken Connor has to strain to hear. "Family."

Connor leans forward limply, kissing one of the man's fingers, the only part of him easily within reach.

"I really do love you, Connor." The man whispers.

Hairs prickle on the back of Connor's neck as that sense of recognition tries to force itself upon him, but he shoves it away, closing his eyes to sleep. He never tells anyone what he's dreamed.

\--

Months later, and Connor hasn't had so much as a shadow trouble him at school. His grades are good and he's making friends. College life is everything they promised him it would be.

He comes home for winter break and stays through January, enjoying the company of high school friends and best of all, his family. Even Kayla's less annoying.

These happy, contented thoughts are what are occupying him when he strolls outside to the mailbox. Life is good, he's happy, he wasn't crazy after all.

The last occurs to him in time for brief flashes in his peripheral vision—black and red, dark and fair—and the shock of it is almost less than the shock of the van. Almost.

The pain hits his body exactly like what it is: a fucking truck in his ribcage. Breath goes out of him in a rush and all semblance of balance disappears as his body meets the pavement. Then there's the horrible, ear-splitting scream of the tires as the beast peels away.

Huh, Connor thinks, and his head tilts the other away, across the street, where the vision came from.

There's nothing there.

His mom and dad and Kayla rush out instantly, his mom already calling 911 and Kayla a mess of frightened tears.

"It's okay." Connor says, without even thinking, as he starts to get up. "See?"

All the world seems to stop for everyone else, and Connor's not thinking of what happened, not realizing yet that he should be dead. All that enters his mind is that brief, peripheral flash of color, that sense of being watched yet again.

Where does this come from? Connor wonders.

Days later, he gets an answer.

\--END


End file.
